Clotilde was of the order of the erring who should by rights have a short
sermon to preface an exposure of them, administering the whip to her own
sex and to ours, lest we scorn too much to take an interest in her. The
exposure she had done for herself, and she has not had the art to frame
her apology. The day after her meeting, with her eagle, Alvan, she saw
Prince Marko. She was gentle to him, in anticipation of his grief; she
could hardly be ungentle on account of his obsequious beauty, and when
her soft eyes and voice had thrilled him to an acute sensibility to the
blow, honourably she inflicted it.
'Marko, my friend, you know that I cannot be false; then let me tell you
I yesterday met the man who has but to lift his hand and I go to him, and
he may lead me whither he will.'
The burning eyes of her Indian Bacchus fixed on her till their brightness
moistened and flashed.
Whatever was for her happiness he bowed his head to, he said. He knew
the man.
Her duty was thus performed; she had plighted herself. For the first few
days she was in dread of meeting, seeing, or hearing of Alvan. She
feared the mention of a name that rolled the world so swiftly. Her
parents had postponed their coming, she had no reason for instant alarm;
it was his violent earnestness, his imperial self-confidence that she
feared, as nervous people shrink from cannon: and neither meeting,
seeing, nor hearing of him, she began to yearn, like the child whose
curiosity is refreshed by a desire to try again the startling thing which
frightened it. Her yearning grew, the illusion of her courage flooded
back; she hoped he would present himself to claim her, marvelled that he
did not, reproached him; she could almost have scorned him for listening
to the hesitations of the despicable girl so little resembling what she
really was--a poor untried girl, anxious only on behalf of her family to
spare them a sudden shock. Remembering her generous considerations in
their interests, she thought he should have known that the creature he
called a child would have yielded upon supplication to fly with him.
Her considerateness for him too, it struck her next, was the cause of
her seeming cowardly, and the man ought to have perceived it and put it
aside. He should have seen that she could be brave, and was a mate for
him. And if his shallow experience of her wrote her down nerveless, his
love should be doing.
Was it love? Her restoration to the belief in her possessing a decided
will whispered of high achievements she could do in proof of love, had
she the freedom of a man. She would not have listened (it was quite
true) to a silly supplicating girl; she would not have allowed an
interval to yawn after the first wild wooing of her. Prince Marko loved.
Yes, that was love! It failed in no sign of the passion. She set
herself to study it in Marko, and was moved by many sentiments, numbering
among them pity, thankfulness, and the shiver of a feeling between
admiration and pathetic esteem, like that the musician has for a precious
instrument giving sweet sound when shattered. He served her faithfully,
in spite of his distaste for some of his lady's commissions. She had to
get her news of Alvan through Marko. He brought her particulars of the
old trial of Alvan, and Alvan's oration in defence of himself for a
lawless act of devotion to the baroness; nothing less than the
successfully scheming to wrest by force from that lady's enemy a document
precious to her lawful interests. It was one of those cases which have a
really high gallant side as well as a bad; an excellent case for
rhetoric. Marko supplied the world's opinion of the affair, bravely
owning it to be not unfavourable. Her worthy relatives, the Frau v.
Crestow and husband, had very properly furnished a report to the family
of the memorable evening; and the hubbub over it, with the epithets
applied to Alvan, intimated how he would have been received on a visit
to demand her in marriage. There was no chance of her being allowed to
enter houses where this 'rageing demagogue and popular buffoon' was a
guest; his name was banished from her hearing, so she was compelled to
have recourse to Marko. Unable to take such services without rewarding
him, she fondled: it pained her to see him suffer. Those who toss crumbs
to their domestic favourites will now and then be moved to toss meat,
which is not so good for them, but the dumb mendicant's delight in it is
winning, and a little cannot hurt. Besides, if any one had a claim on
her it was the prince; and as he was always adoring, never importunate,
he restored her to the pedestal she had been really rudely shaken from by
that other who had caught her up suddenly into the air, and dropped her!
A hand abandoned to her slave rewarded him immeasurably. A heightening
of the reward almost took his life. In the peacefulness of dealing with
a submissive love that made her queenly, the royal, which plucked her
from throne to footstool, seemed predatory and insolent. Thus, after
that scene of 'first love,' in which she had been actress, she became
almost (with an inward thrill or two for the recovering of him)
reconciled to the not seeing of the noble actor; for nothing could erase
the scene--it was historic; and Alvan would always be thought of as a
delicious electricity. She and Marko were together on the summer
excursion of her people, and quite sisterly, she could say, in her
delicate scorn of his advantages and her emotions. True gentlemen are
imperfectly valued when they are under the shadow of giants; but still
Clotilde's experience of a giant's manners was favourable to the liberty
she could enjoy in a sisterly intimacy of this kind, rather warmer than
her word for it would imply. She owned that she could better live the
poetic life--that is, trifle with fire and reflect on its charms in the
society of Marko. He was very young, he was little more than an
adolescent, and safely timid; a turn of her fingers would string or
slacken him. One could play on him securely, thinking of a distant day
--and some shipwreck of herself for an interlude--when he might be made
happy.
Her strangest mood of the tender cruelty was when the passion to
anatomize him beset her. The ground of it was, that she found him in her
likeness, adoring as she adored, and a similar loftiness; now grovelling,
now soaring; the most radiant of beings, the most abject; and the
pleasure she had of the sensational comparison was in an alteregoistic
home she found in him, that allowed of her gathering a picked self-
knowledge, and of her saying: 'That is like me: that is very like me:
that is terribly like': up to the point where the comparison wooed her no
longer with an agreeable lure of affinity, but nipped her so shrewdly as
to force her to say: 'That is he, not I': and the vivisected youth
received the caress which quickened him to wholeness at a touch. It was
given with impulsive tenderness, in pity of him. Anatomy is the title
for the operation, because the probing of herself in another, with the
liberty to cease probing as soon as it hurt her, allowed her while unhurt
to feel that she prosecuted her researches in a dead body. The moment
her strong susceptibility to the likeness shrank under a stroke of pain,
she abstained from carving, and simultaneously conscious that he lived,
she was kind to him.
'This love of yours, Marko--is it so deep?'
'I love you.'
'You think me the highest and best?'
'You are.'
'So deep that you could bear anything from me?'
'Try me!'
'Unfaithfulness?'
'You would be you!'
'Do you not say that because you cannot suspect evil of me?'
'Let me only see you!'
'You are sure that happiness would not smother it?'
'Has it done so yet?'
'Though you know I am a serpent to that man's music?'
'Ah, heaven! Oh!--do not say music. Yes! though anything!'
'And if ever you were to witness the power of his just breathing to me?'
'I would . . . . Ah!'
' What? If you saw his music working the spell?--even the first notes of
his prelude!'
'I would wait'
'It might be for long.'
'I would eat my heart.'
'Bitter! bitter!'
'I would wait till he flung you off, and kneel to you.'
She had a seizure of the nerves.
The likeness between them was, she felt, too flamingly keen to be looked
at further. She reached to the dim idea of some such nauseous devotion,
and took a shot in her breast as she did so, and abjured it, and softened
to her victim. Clotilde opened her arms, charming away her wound, as she
soothed him, both by the act of soothing and the reflection that she
could not be so very like one whom she pitied and consoled.
She was charitably tender. If it be thought that she was cruel to
excess, plead for her the temptation to simple human nature at sight of a
youth who could be precipitated into the writhings of dissolution, and
raised out of it by a smile. This young man's responsive spirit acted on
her as the discovery of specifics for restoring soundness to the frame
excites the brilliant empiric: he would slay us with benevolent soul to
show the miracle of our revival. Worship provokes the mortal goddess to
a manifestation of her powers; and really the devotee is full half to
blame.
She had latterly been thinking of Alvan's rejection of the part of
centaur; and his phrase, the quadruped man, breathed meaning. He was to
gain her lawfully after dominating her utterly. That was right, but it
levelled imagination. There is in the sentimental kingdom of Love a form
of reasoning, by which a lady of romantic notions who is dominated
utterly, will ask herself why she should be gained lawfully: and she is
moved to do so by the consideration that if the latter, no necessity can
exist for the former: and the reverse. In the union of the two
conditions she sees herself slavishly domesticated. With her Indian
Bacchus imagination rose, for he was pliant: she had only to fancy, and
he was beside her.--Quick to the saddle, away! The forest of terrors is
ahead; they are at the verge of it; a last hamlet perches on its borders;
the dwellers have haunted faces; the timbers of their huts lean to an
upright in wry splinters; warnings are moaned by men and women with the
voice of a night-wind; but on and on! the forest cannot be worse than a
world defied. They drain a cup of milk apiece and they spur, for this is
the way to the golden Indian land of the planted vine and the lover's
godship.--Ludicrous! There is no getting farther than the cup of milk
with Marko. They curvet and caper to be forward unavailingly. It should
be Alvan to bring her through the forest to the planted vine in sunland.
Her splendid prose Alvan could do what the sprig of poetry can but
suggest. Never would malicious fairy in old woman's form have offered
Alvan a cup of milk to paralyze his bride's imagination of him
confronting perils. Yet, O shameful contrariety of the fates! he who
could, will not; he who would, is incapable. Let it not be supposed that
the desire of her bosom was to be run away with in person. Her simple
human nature wished for the hero to lift her insensibly over the
difficult opening chapter of the romance--through 'the forest,' or half
imagined: that done, she felt bold enough to meet the unimagined, which,
as there was no picture of it to terrify her, seemed an easy gallop into
sunland.--Yes, but in the grasp of a great prose giant, with the poetic
departed! Naturally she turned to caress the poetic while she had it
beside her. And it was a wonder to observe the young prince's heavenly
sensitiveness to every variation of her moods. He knew without hearing
when she had next seen Alvan, though it had not been to speak to him. He
looked, and he knew. The liquid darkness of his large eastern eyes cast
a light that brought her heart out: she confessed it, and she comforted
him. The sweetest in the woman caused her double-dealing.
Now she was aware that Alvan moved behind the screen concealing him.
A common friend of Alvan and her family talked to her of him. He was an
eminent professor, a middleaged, grave and honourable man, not ignorant
that her family entertained views opposed to the pretensions of such a
man as the demagogue and Jew. Nevertheless Alvan could persuade him to
abet the scheme for his meeting Clotilde; nay, to lead to it; ultimately
to allow his own house to be their place of meeting. Alvan achieved the
first of the steps unassisted. Whether or not his character stood well
with a man of the world, his force of character, backed by solid
attainments in addition to brilliant gifts, could win a reputable citizen
and erudite to support him. Rhetoric in a worthy cause has good chances
of carrying the gravest, and the cause might reasonably seem excellent to
the professor when one promising fair to be the political genius of his
time, but hitherto not the quietest of livers, could make him believe
that marriage with this girl would be his clear salvation. The second
step was undesignedly Clotilde's.
She was on the professor's arm at one of the great winter balls of her
conductor's brethren in the law, and he said: 'Alvan is here.' She
answered: 'No, he has not yet come.'--How could she tell that he was not
present in the crowd?
'Has he come now?' said the professor.
'No.'
And no Alvan was discernible.
'Now?'
'Not yet.'
The professor stared about. She waited.
'Now he has come; he is in the room now,' said Clotilde.
Alvan was perceived. He stood in the centre of the throng surrounding
him to buzz about some recent pamphlet.
She could well play at faith in his magnetization of her, for as by
degrees she made herself more nervously apprehensive by thinking of him,
it came to an overclouding and then a panic; and that she took for the
physical sign of his presence, and by that time, the hour being late,
Alvan happened to have arrived. The touch of his hand, the instant
naturalness in their speaking together after a long separation, as if
there had not been an interval, confirmed her notion of his influence on
her, almost to the making it planetary. And a glance at the professor
revealed how picturesque it was. Alvan and he murmured aside. They
spoke of it: What wonder that Alvan, though he saw Prince Marko whirl her
in the dance, and keep her to the measure--dancing like a song of the
limbs in his desperate poor lover's little flitting eternity of the
possession of her--should say, after she had been led back to her
friends: 'That is he, then! one of the dragons guarding my apple of the
Hesperides, whom I must brush away.'
'He?' replied Clotilde, sincerely feeling Marko to be of as fractional a
weight as her tone declared him. 'Oh, he is my mute, harmless, he does
not count among the dragons.'
But there had been, notwithstanding the high presumption of his remark,
a manful thickness of voice in Alvan's 'That is he!' The rivals had
fastened a look on one another, wary, strong, and summary as the
wrestlers' first grapple. In fire of gaze, Marko was not outdone.
'He does not count? With those eyes of his?' Alvan exclaimed. He knew
something of the sex, and spied from that point of knowledge into the
character of Clotilde; not too venturesomely, with the assistance of
rumour, hazarding the suspicion which he put forth as a certainty, and
made sharply bitter to himself in proportion to the belief in it that his
vehemence engendered: 'I know all--without exception; all, everything;
all! I repeat. But what of it, if I win you? as I shall--only aid me a
little.'
She slightly surprised the man by not striving to attenuate the import
of the big and surcharged All: but her silence bore witness to his
penetrative knowledge. Dozens of amorous gentlemen, lovers, of excellent
substance, have before now prepared this peculiar dose for themselves--
the dose of the lady silent under a sort of pardoning grand accusation;
and they have had to drink it, and they have blinked over the tonic
draught with such power of taking a bracing as their constitutions could
summon. At no moment of their quaint mutual history are the sexes to be
seen standing more acutely divided. Well may the lady be silent; her
little sins are magnified to herself to the proportion of the greatness
of heart forgiving her; and that, with his mysterious penetration and a
throb of her conscience, holds her tongue-tied. She does not imagine the
effect of her silence upon the magnanimous wretch. Some of these lovers,
it has to be stated in sadness for the good name of man, have not
preserved an attitude that said so nobly, 'Child, thou art human--thou
art woman!' They have undone it and gone to pieces with an injured
lover's babble of persecuting inquiries for confessions. Some, on the
contrary, retaining the attitude, have been unable to digest the tonic;
they did not prepare their systems as they did their dose, possibly
thinking the latter a supererogatory heavy thump on a trifle, the which
was performed by them artfully for a means of swallowing and getting that
obnoxious trifle well down. These are ever after love's dyspeptics.
Very few indeed continue at heart in harmony with their opening note to
the silent fair, because in truth the general anticipation is of her
proclaiming, if not angelical innocence, a softly reddened or blush-rose
of it, where the little guiltiness lies pathetic on its bed of white.
Alvan's robustness of temper, as a conqueror pleased with his capture,
could inspirit him to feel as he said it:
'I know all; what matters that to me?' Even her silence, extending the
'all' beyond limits, as it did to the over-knowing man, who could number
these indicative characteristics of the young woman: impulsive, without
will, readily able to lie: her silence worked no discord in him. He
would have remarked, that he was not looking out for a saint, but rather
for a sprightly comrade, perfectly feminine, thoroughly mastered, young,
graceful, comely, and a lady of station. Once in his good keeping, her
lord would answer for her. And this was a manfully generous view of the
situation. It belongs to the robustness of the conqueror's mood. But
how of his opinion of her character in the fret of a baffling, a repulse,
a defeat? Supposing the circumstances not to have helped her to shine as
a heroine, while he was reduced to appear no hero to himself! Wise are
the mothers who keep vigilant personal watch over their girls, were it
only to guard them at present, from the gentleman's condescending
generosity, until he has become something more than robust in his ideas
of the sex--say, for lack of the ringing word, fraternal.
Clotilde never knew, and Alvan would have been unable to date, the origin
of the black thing flung at her in time to come--when the man was
frenzied, doubtless, but it was in his mind, and more than froth of
madness.
After the night of the ball they met beneath the sanctioning roof of the
amiable professor; and on one occasion the latter, perhaps waxing
anxious, and after bringing about the introduction of Clotilde to the
sister of Alvan, pursued his prudent measures bypassing the pair through
a demi-ceremony of betrothal. It sprang Clotilde astride nearer to
reality, both actually and in feeling; and she began to show the change
at home. A rebuff that came of the coupling of her name with Alvan's
pushed her back as far below the surface as she had ever been. She
waited for him to take the step she had again implored him not yet to
take; she feared that he would, she marvelled at his abstaining; the old
wheel revolved, as it ever does with creatures that wait for
circumstances to bring the change they cannot work for themselves; and
once more the two fell asunder. She had thoughts of the cloister. Her
venerable relative died joining her hand to Prince Marko's; she was
induced to think of marriage. An illness laid her prostrate; she
contemplated the peace of death.
Shortly before she fell sick the prince was a guest of her father's, and
had won the household by his perfect amiability as an associate. The
grace and glow, and some of the imaginable accomplishments of an Indian
Bacchus were native to him. In her convalescence, she asked herself what
more she could crave than the worship of a godlike youth, whom she in
return might cherish, strengthening his frail health with happiness.
For she had seen how suffering ate him up; he required no teaching in the
Spartan virtue of suffering, wolf-gnawed, silently. But he was a flower
in sunshine to happiness, and he looked to her for it. Why should she
withhold from him a thing so easily given? The convalescent is receptive
and undesiring, or but very faintly desiring: the new blood coming into
the frame like first dawn of light has not stirred the old passions; it
is infant nature, with a tinge of superadded knowledge that is not cloud
across it and lends it only a tender wistfulness.
Her physician sentenced her to the Alps, whither a friend, a daughter of
our island, whose acquaintance she had made in Italy, was going, and at
an invitation Clotilde accompanied her, and she breathed Alpine air.
Marko sank into the category of dreams during sickness. There came a
letter from the professor mentioning that Alvan was on one of the kingly
Alpine heights in view, and the new blood running through her veins
became a torrent. He there! So near! Could he not be reached?
He had a saying: Two wishes make a will.
The wishes of two lovers, he meant. A prettier sentence for lovers, and
one more intoxicating to them, was never devised. It chirrups of the
dear silly couple. Well, this was her wish. Was it his? Young health
on the flow of her leaping blood cried out that it could not be other
than Alvan's wish; she believed in his wishing it. Then as he wished and
she wished, she had the will immediately, and it was all the more her own
for being his as well. She hurried her friend and her friend's friends
on horseback off to the heights where the wounded eagle lodged
overlooking mountain and lake. The professor reported him outwearied
with excess of work. Alvan lived the lives of three; the sins of thirty
were laid to his charge. Do you judge of heroes as of lesser men? Her
reckless defence of him, half spoken, half in her mind, helped her to
comprehend his dealings with her, and how it was that he stormed her and
consented to be beaten. He had a thousand occupations, an ambition out
of the world of love, chains to break, temptations, leanings . . .
tut, tut! She had not lived in her circle of society, and listened to
the tales of his friends and enemies, and been the correspondent of
flattering and flattered men of learning, without understanding how a man
like Alvan found diversions when forbidden to act in a given direction:
and now that her healthful new blood inspired the courage to turn two
wishes to a will, she saw both herself and him very clearly, enough at
least to pardon the man more than she did herself. She had perforce of
her radiant new healthfulness arrived at an exact understanding of him.
Where she was deluded was in supposing that she would no longer dread his
impetuous disposition to turn rosy visions into facts. But she had the
revived convalescent's ardour to embrace things positive while they were
not knocking at the door; dreams were abhorrent to her, tasteless and
innutritious; she cast herself on the flood, relying on his towering
strength and mastery of men and events to bring her to some safe landing
--the dream of hearts athirst for facts.